


Sinews Over Sorries

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (this time), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild dubcon? But mostly just, Mostly Pwp, Teasing, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: The exact words he had used didn’t seem to matter much after that, the bard had forgotten his own crude poetry, because an implication had risen and Geralt had called his bluff. Had taken the bard by the collar to inform him that he couldn’t handle it.“You’d be surprised what I could handle,” had been Jaskier’s foolish reply.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 423





	Sinews Over Sorries

The ground was soft and moist like the cap of a mushroom, and it dipped beneath their combined weight. The dirt compacted itself in the textured grains and gullies of Jaskier’s doublet. The silks were already soiling, but they’d be worse soon. Geralt was pushing the garment off the bard’s shoulders, shoving it down haphazardly to serve as a makeshift bed. 

The heat between them burned hotter in the cold night air. There would be no witnesses save the winking stars and a humble, but silent Roach a few yards off. The animal was modest enough to avert her gaze. 

Yet, they both would know. It was Jaskier, usually the ambitious of the two, who’s expression bore weariness. He had laughed, just the moment before. Made light of Geralt’s gaze. Had said something vulgar to jest away how needy the witcher had seemed for lack of coin’s begotten company.

The exact words he had used didn’t seem to matter much after that, the bard had forgotten his own crude poetry, because an implication had risen and Geralt had called his bluff. Had taken the bard by the collar to inform him that he _couldn’t handle it_.

 _“You’d be surprised what I could handle,”_ had been Jaskier’s foolish reply. 

Then he’d been pushed from log to earth. Kissed then, fully and on the lips, scent of ale permeating the affair. Jaskier had felt a spike of something so primal, even his fantasies could not compare. His fingers had latched onto the thick muscle of Geralt’s shoulders and he had, for a brief and blissful instant, perished.

Yet when the witcher took this as invitation–because he had never known unpaid encounters to begin any other way–Jaskier had startled.

So now, with doublet discarded and undergarment under siege, feeling the full weight of the witcher and all the splendid possibilities he carried, the bard felt his fluttering heart seize with panic. 

His hands both fumbled down Geralt’s arms and ceased unyielding fingers. When gold eyes looked up, burning with hunger and confusion, Jaskier nearly gave in again. He wanted so badly to allow the white wolf to consume him, to break him into timber and use him for warmth. However, such a fate would leave nothing of Jaskier behind. Instead, he choked back a whimper and said, “Can we talk about this?”

“Hmmph,” Geralt’s chest rumbled and Jaskier swooned. He could feel the vibrations run through rigid muscle and quiver through his own body like he was a lute being strummed. “Why is it always talking with you?”

“Words are my living, my life, my–my, my self,” Jaskier offered. He attempted to sound like his usual, rueful self, but the quake in his voice was apparent. 

“What is there to say?” To make his meaning very clear, Geralt rolled his hips downward and they slid roughly over Jaskier’s still-clothed thigh and the side of his rather pressing erection. 

“Ngh!” The bard’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and, once more, desperate hands sprung up to brace Geralt’s shoulders for support. 

Seeing for a moment that this effectively silenced the chatter, with a grin Geralt repeated the demonstration. He arched his hips down and dragged his sheathed blade more pointedly across Jaskier’s and watched in rapt satisfaction as the other man shook and turned a red just visible in the low flicker of the campfire. 

Again and again, until Jaskier’s legs were spreading, locking to the outside of Geralt’s hips to pull him closer, drag him harder. 

“Yes!” Jaskier gasped, and his voice sounded so strangled, so needy, that it became like lava. Hot fire spilling over Geralt’s guilt. 

Only then did the witcher ease back, allowed his own need to levee some. “You’ll chafe,” he said softly. His eyes fell to the hem of Jaskier’s slacks, but his hands remained where they’d fallen at the bard’s hips. 

Jaskier swallowed, both grateful for and cursing the reprieve. The chance to try again to articulate his fears. 

“I…” He swallowed, hard. His stomach rolled like the ocean just before a storm, rough, surmounting, threatening. “I don’t want this to be the only time.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Geralt said slowly, brows woven in consideration. 

“I don’t want it to be meaningless.”

Geralt steadied himself from a reactionary response. He could have easily lamented the pointlessness of all affairs. Could have taunted by dragging out meanings from the bard’s lips instead. However, their reunion was still fresh, and a longing, quiet part of Geralt feared taking another cut too deep into Jaskier resilient–but not indestructible–ego.

“It can mean whatever you like,” he offered softly. 

For an instant, the witcher was sure he’d misstepped. Jaskier’s face looked pained, harkened back to a time Geralt would have liked to forever forget. 

Then a gentle, quivering smile painted the bard’s features. He looked so beautiful, the same soft dips and lines and smooth planes still lived in the same places as when they’d met. Geralt forgot sometimes that he was even human. 

The bard brought a hand up to stroke Geralt’s cheek tenderly. Even the rough pebbles of stubble tickled Jaskier’s nerves and lit him up from the inside. “I’ll just sing myself any story I’d like then, shall I?” 

“You usually do.”

Jaskier laughed. “There is a kernel of truth in everything you know.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replied thoughtfully.

“It’s alright then. But Geralt I–“

If there was something else poised on his lips, Geralt didn’t want to hear it, or else couldn’t bear to. He swallowed up the bard’s unsung verse and quieted future protest with a press of his tongue.

He reached between and unfastened the whole display of clasps upon Jaskier’s breeches. Then, with fingers twined thickly in the material, Geralt tugged both they and the linens beneath down to reveal the bare skin below. Jaskier lifted his hips to encourage the process and wriggled until his plump globes struck the cool, muddy earth. He drew in a sharp breath that Geralt inhaled as his own in the next entanglement of their lips. 

The witcher fumbled at his pockets and pulled forth a small vial of oil that he used most often for chapped lips and sore muscles. He popped the cork with the nail of his thumb and tipped the glass so the thick liquid spilled over his forefingers and messily dribbled his palm. 

The whole act became more fluid. It was neither as romantic as Jaskier desired, nor as filthy as Geralt had expected, but something carefully between that felt both questioning and fully certain. 

Geralt rubbed the oil first into Jaskier’s thigh, coaxed it to ease and draw back so he could grope eagerly at the swell of satin cheek below. 

Jaskier giggled at the strong palm, then nuzzled his face against Geralt’s neck to muffle the sound, only to giggle again at the heady scent of leather, dirt, and musk.

“Everything alright?” Geralt asked, unable to fight his own smile. 

“This just, hehehe, this isn’t how I pictured this going,” Jaskier confessed. Then he laughed harder when he could _hear_ the lift of Geralt’s eyebrow without any need to look or listen. 

“Hmm,” Geralt said at last. Then his finger circled the pucker of Jaskier’s entrance, rubbed the bevels of muscles to drench them in the warming fluid. “Funny, it’s exactly as I pictured it.”

“Oh!” Jaskier’s head tossed back, theatrical as ever, as that first digit spread him hotly open. It burned with a sort of searing pressure he had not expected, but the oil allowed Geralt deeper even as satiny inner walls clenched in surprise. 

The witcher was slow and careful. Even as the hot clasp of Jaskier’s body stunned him with its desirable sensuality. He pushed the bard onto his back and stroked exposed skin with his free hand. In the intermittent, while his finger probed in and out of the flexing confines with torturous rhythm, Geralt studied the elegant dips and folds of flesh. Jaskier was remarkably taut, the muscles of his stomach bounced as he reacted to budding pleasure, his soft hair tussled as he turned his head this way and that. His colors grew richer, darker as his chest and cheeks flushed rouge. 

For the bard’s part, he’d never been opened up–despite lurid public expectation–and it took everything in him not to scream out and summon every wild thing in the woods with his cries. Instead, he whimpered softly, let his body twitch and rock into the contact as it pleased, and relished in the lust he could see on Geralt’s face. _His_ witcher, for a moment whom’s icy stoicism was disrupted in the parting of lips and the groan pouring through them. Jaskier’s gaze only wavered when a second digit pushed inside and the prying, burning ache returned in full.

Jaskier’s blunt nails scraped the dirt and his spine arched so his cock bounced toward the sky. His breath came in uneven puffs that warmed the air into misty clouds which danced briefly over flushed lips before departing. 

Geralt’s impatience was probably clear in how his calloused fingers moved in and out of Jaskier’s trembling form. He’d never seen a person _shake_ so much. It was as enthralling as it was frustrating for how it made his straining loins further ache. 

He was moving too fast, and that became more clear as Jaskier’s lips parted and his half-lidded eyes widened in a mixture of pleasure and alarm. “Ah! Ah! Geralt! Please! Slowly! Slowly!”

Sadly, the quivering octave, laced with helplessness and desire, did not make Geralt _want_ to slow. 

“Why?” Geralt’s voice was lower than usual, a teasing pur. “Does it hurt?” 

“My body is on fire, Geralt! Please!” Jaskier pleaded with his eyes, swallowed such that his tongue sounded thick with saliva. His hips began to twitch, to turn and pivot, grinding down and back in a desperate dance that wasn’t sure where next to go.

Geralt felt like his body was on fire too. His wrist began to move faster without his meaning to as he was overwhelmed by his libido. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Geralt!” 

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” Geralt chuckled.

That was the final strike. The sound of it, the blessed, horrible sound that came to the bard like a new note. That laugh that rumbled through him and collapsed every bit of will and structure he had rebuilt in himself. Every iota of resolution crumbled and reminded Jaskier he was _weak_. 

He came toppling down with the rest of it, and his body spasmed like a dying man. For a split second Geralt thought he’d hurt him, but the cries were rawly pleasure and the seed spilling from Jaskier’s reddened crown assured him all was well. 

The pearly ropes painted the seams of Jaskier’s stomach. Made his shapely form–often underestimated–glimmer in the faint lights of the night. 

Geralt felt his own member twitch harshly as he splattered the inside of his trousers. His breath quickened and his body went rigid as he spilled to the song of the bard’s satisfaction.

Unlike the bard, however, Geralt’s completion was no such thing. A witcher’s needs were bountiful and the release had only burned him up and made his crown’s slit gasp in want for more.

As Jaskier lied upon his crumbled cloth, cooing and watching the stars through a blissful haze, Geralt ridded himself of all barriers and crawled over his lover-for-the-evening’s tantalizing form.

“Oh, oh yes, oh–oh wait! What? Geralt hold on now!” Jaskier’s hands flew up defensively when he felt something hot and wet press against his still throbbing entrance.

“You’re more relaxed now,” Geralt said through gritted teeth. It was taking everything in him to hold back. Usually he just went as he pleased, Jaskier made everything more complicated. “It’ll be easier.”

Jaskier suddenly recalled all the times he had pulled similar stunts on women and felt very suddenly that the shoe was, indeed, on the other foot. On the other hand, he’d never had an unsatisfied customer and he doubted Geralt got many complaints either. Besides that, the man was looming, naked and breathless, wreaking of sweat and passion and Jaskier wanted him so badly could feel the earth falling out from beneath him. 

So instead of pushing Geralt away, Jaskier ran his digits up the firm hills of Geralt’s pecks, toyed with the radiant silver hairs there, and spread his legs once more in welcome. “If you’re going to soil me, at the very least don’t leave anything clean.”

Geralt growled in acceptance and lifted Jaskier into his lap. The bard yelped charmingly and the witcher spread his cheeks and rutted against the wettened, winking opening. 

Cock firm and weeping, Geralt plunged in, too fast to be certain, but Jaskier’s scream was gratifying and his tight, oil-slick heat all the more.

The bard’s fingers tangled in the long, loose waves of Geralt’s white hair. The strands felt like unspooled thread and they danced almost too delicately in contrast to the sharp winding of pain and ecstasy that was shooting through Jaskier’s spine. 

Like an electric eel, prickles of agony and pleasure crackled in turns under the layers of Jaskier’s skin. His vision spun as blood pulsed from head to head. His prick swelled rapidly against the stoney grooves of Geralt’s abdomen. 

Sticky precum and old spill clung and spread between pressed flesh like bits of broken cobweb that stuck and flittered in uneven turns. 

Inside he was being parted, opened up and caressed more deeply than he was aware his body went. At first it was just the crown, dragging back and forth along sensitive untouched territory. It moved exploratively, prodded here and there and made Jaskier’s body bounce and cry out. Little by little, Geralt pushed deeper, barely able to contain his urge to thrust, to move in and out with the rough intention he felt to claim, to dominate the other man.

Then it was the full length of the girth, a stretch so full and complete that Jaskier was certain there was not an inch left inside of him. His stomach roiled, almost sick, but he loved it. Just as his heart rejoiced for so many complicated things in this world.

“Geralt, deep, Geralt, yes! Geralt, more,” Jaskier babbled in his attempts to say much more. Words floundered on his tongue, started and died in jumbles of sounds and broken ideas.

Geralt felt the effects of their passion all over his body. It was tight inside, like a vice that injected pleasure from sack to brain, but watching Jaskier quake, seeing his lashes flutter, hearing his gratingly memorable voice break and climb, that was so much better. He felt himself reeling, more attached to each measured motion than he had any desire to be. He didn’t want it to feel like this, to be so unable to remove himself from how right it felt there. Yet he could not escape it. It seemed he never could.

Jaskier bounced up and down, tried to spear himself in hopes to end this way, so no questions would live on with him, but eventually Geralt pushed him down, kissed him hard as he pinned him back to dirt and shucked fabrics. The witcher plowed into him, thrummed in and out with abandon, with passion that had built up too long, longer than he wanted to admit.

It was the witcher that came next, whole body rumbling and voice dropping impossibly lower. His seed filled the empty places, what few there were, and squelched out in the spaces between the reddened barrier of Jaskier’s ass and Geralt’s throbbing base. 

He didn’t stop, rather increased his tempo at Jaskier’s beseeching, moaned in wonderous, blinding lust as those blunt nails mirrored the tracks in the dirt on the pale skin of the witcher’s spine.

Geralt came more, hips pistoning and stilling in erratic motions.

Jaskier could feel the creamy spill filling him up. He started to feel like the ocean, pulled Geralt in on tides and rode out the consequences. 

“I love you,” he choked as his own body broke with waves so deep and raw they felt otherworldly, beyond his prick, beyond his brain, into a plane of satisfaction to which mortals were not normally privy. 

Geralt either didn’t hear him over the rush of blood and his own short shouts, or he didn’t reply with words. Instead, he lifted Jaskier up one final time and kissed him deeply and meaningfully. He pulled him into a complete hug, so their hearts, though not in tandem, beat together. 

When the rush of their passion waned beneath the moonlight, Geralt held Jaskier to him still, side by side. And even as the doubt set in, and tomorrow looked uncertain, his barker was there to lighten the mood.

“Geralt,” he whispered tenderly.

“Mm?”

“Apology accepted.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! This was supposed to be 500 words of filth to stretch my literary muscles since I've been sick with the flu, but it got away from me. I apologize for any errors, I'm still a little hazy.
> 
> If you're keeping up with my chapter fics, they'll both be updated soon, but in the meantime I hope everyone enjoyed this little porn escape. Let me know what you thought <3


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